


sore eye with blurry vision

by shannyan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, Eye Trauma, M/M, oh and here’s a shocking one, season 2 alt ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 02:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20538755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannyan/pseuds/shannyan
Summary: Will’s sight has always been a grievance. The good doctor helps him out.





	sore eye with blurry vision

“When Garret Jacob Hobbs said, “see”, I believed it was a prophecy, that you would see me in a way no one else has. I took great care to nurture this development, to strengthen your sight, aid you in achieving perfect vision by taking on case by case. Only recently did I realize I was wrong in my assessment. You're afflicted in seeing too much, and it blinds you. Sometimes, to see better, we must see less.”

Will’s single eye slowly turns to him. It takes a moment for it to focus, and his gaze drifts from from his neck to his lips to his nose, in preparation for looking into his eyes. They’re calm, observant, unrestrained. How much, how many times did he hold back from looking like this? Will just blinks in acknowledgement. 

“I was wrong for trying to stop your mind. Stopping one of the inputs to it yields better results while preserving what’s important. Perhaps now your sight is balanced and on par with others.” 

Hannibal reaches out to touch him, and Will holds his breath in anticipation. He looks so far away that Will doesn’t think the hand will reach him, and so he jolts, minutely, when it suddenly lands. 

Hannibal flattens the bandage on his eye, an excuse to caress. Will’s hands, bound, must allow it. He’s too drowsy to even test said bounds, simply takes the appraising touch. 

“The purpose of having two eyes isn’t to see more. It is so that we have a wider range of view, and depth perception. Wouldn’t you say this has been a lifelong problem for you? Seeing too much, too deeply?” His hand drags over to Will’s other eye, and he runs a single finger up the curl of Will’s lashes. Will blinks again, a butterfly kiss. 

Will finally looks at the beast… and finds a man there. Was it because he now witnessed the  _ man _ in action, that his brain found the human skin now plausible? What he felt, what he knew, what he vaguely remembered could not compete with the true vision of  _ seeing _ . 

He was awake for the operation. Awake was an incorrect term, maybe present? Heavily drugged but conscious, in fact Hannibal prodded him several times whenever he began to drift off. This wasn’t like when he was made to swallow Abigail's ear with a simple snippet of a memory; When his eyes had briefly surfaced to capture said memory, Hannibal gave a passing nod. He’d positioned Will’s head properly, generous in his hand placement, unnecessarily cradling his face. 

But for the operation he constantly checked Will’s eye for presence, pet his legs to get his attention (far from his face, they had the most feeling), called his name over and over. Beginning formal but fading into reverent. 

Only after removing his eye completely did Hannibal allow Will to rest. Who knows how long. Not as long as needed, but Hannibal was probably impatient to cook his prize. Wanted it fresh. 

Will’s memories of this one lacked the clarity of his other memories, but made up for it in length. Though it could be condensed to a single glance. He felt nothing, was unaware of the progress being made, could only squint at the face looming above him, barely watch the scalpel moving in his peripheral. Hannibal’s face remained the same throughout, a look of concentration and anticipation. Nevertheless, Will was transfixed. 

No matter how long he looked, the skin did not fade into darkness, his features didn’t melt together into a waxy mask. He looks, closely, sees the peak of stubble, the unfilled eyebrows, the lines in his face. He’s so incredibly human, Will wonders why he didn’t believe so before. 

His eye drops down, he’s had his fill, but Hannibal hasn’t, and it just takes a touch at his chin, a polite tilt up, to make him resume eye contact. 

“It’s easier now, isn’t it?”

Will answers with a prolonged look. He wonders what kind of face he’s making. The movements of his face feel distant, like his brain isn’t correctly sending the messages, and so they’re lost in transit. Hannibal didn’t want him to be in pain, not this time, so he was sporting a generous dose of morphine. And so Will only had feeling neck down, and even that was lacking. 

Hannibal is silent as he sets the dish down. Peculiar, as he had the compulsion to title his dishes, list their ingredients, recite their origins. But Hannibal’s pride isn’t in his cooking, but the ingredient itself. He probably would have eaten it raw, had he not found preparation a form of respect. 

While he seldom repeated dishes (at least, around guests) he kept a meticulous record of every recipe of every food. Will had no way of knowing, and yet he knew, that this recipe would go unrecorded. This was special, only to be crafted and consumed once, needless of a preamble or introduction. He could just place it on the table, and the sight is enough. 

It doesn’t really register as his. He never looked at himself much or felt in his body enough to feel true attachment. The eye lost its color in the process of however it was cooked, the iris clouded, the sightlessness… comforting, in a way. To look, and not be looked at. 

“It’s traditionally eaten in a single bite, meaning it cannot be shared. I did not invite you to this table to watch me eat.” Will had expected this, resolved this already. 

“I believe it’s appropriate for you to decide; Would you like to have it, or may I?”

Is there any meaning in Will eating it? Submitting it was enough already. Though he was sure Hannibal would be happy as long as one of them had it, he wanted it for Hannibal. A rare delicacy, only two of its kind. It seems like an appropriate gift that well conveyed how he felt. 

A long blink relays this, his throat too dry for him to bother speaking. Hannibal nods in understanding and drags the plate closer to himself. Looks at the unseeing eye.

Something sparks in his face and a smile touches his lips. “Oh, excuse me, I realize my earlier statement is incorrect.” 

And then he eats it, chews, swallows. Will watches Hannibal’s face as he tastes it, can tell the exact moment the eyeball bursts in his mouth— 

Then Hannibal tilts his head and closes in, slow enough for Will to see him coming and allow it— and they kiss. It’s open mouthed, and while Hannibal was trying to share the taste, it felt like he was just going for more, licking deep into Will’s mouth, over his tongue, his palette. Will doesn’t close his eye, watches the savory look on Hannibal’s face, tries to feel what he feels. He finds, with some surprise, that he can’t. 

Will’s jaw is already slack due to the numbing agent, his tongue thick in his mouth and unable to properly reciprocate, but Hannibal must be used to the unmutual contact. It’s probably wrong to call this a kiss, but Will still wanted to. Because that's what it looked like. Simple. 

Hannibal pulls away to gaze at him. He can’t seem to get enough of it, unreserved in the intensity of his gaze, and seemingly unblinking. This no longer makes Will cower. 

“You'll need to keep the wound covered so it can properly heal, but I hope you decide to leave it open afterwards. You get to experience something not many can— a physical manifestation of your inner turmoil. It’s the same mentality that causes people to self harm; an outward show of their inner pain. I imagine you relate to this sentiment, after having your brain on fire but nobody aware of it. A display of what’s been done to you, of your development, which you couldn’t prove before.”

Will tried to visualize it, people hesitantly questioning what happened to him, grimacing at the scars, averting their eyes. Oh. “I finally… have a real excuse to avoid eye contact.”

Hannibal cracks a smile, one of his rare ones, with a hint of teeth. They’re fangs, whispers of his true viciousness, the wolf winking from beneath the sheep’s tarp. 

Will isn’t surprised when Hannibal undoes the bounds, deft fingers freeing him within a drowsy moment. His arms, heavy with blood that pooled during all the disuse, slowly drag up into his lap. Drugged as he is, he has enough proximity and strength to knock Hannibal out and escape. It’s why the bounds were placed to begin with. 

But he had earned Hannibal’s trust now, it seems. He rewards Hannibal’s reward now, reaches out to hold his hand. A normal, almost innocent gesture that shouldn’t be seen as particularly romantic for a couple like them, and yet is is. It’s a humble connection of body heat and touch, a sign of acceptance and welcome. Hannibal is quick and eager to clasp his other hand around their joined hands, as if to keep him there, ask him to stay. He doesn’t, only to see how freely his hand slides out between Hannibal’s. It travels to his face, and the good doctor meets him halfway in his eagerness. 

Is he deserving of such trust? Will feels equal parts inclined to leave and stay. Leave: Submit himself as evidence against Hannibal, have him finally face justice, return to his days of talking at a group of students and taking care of his dogs. Retribution, at the cost of the only person he’s ever been close to. His missing eye a very literal testament to the part he’s lost with Hannibal. Stay: Escape somewhere, probably in Europe, steal someone else’s life and live as them, free from everyone who’s ever doubted him. Feel and be whole. 

Hannibal leaves his line of sight, and it’s the first time in a long time that Will doesn’t see him. Every waking moment was spent in his company, to the point where it extended into his dreams. Sometimes set in the past when they were mere patient and psychologist, but in the present too as detective and killer. Dream Hannibal wasn’t kinder no matter the time, though he wasn’t particularly cruel. Sometimes Will himself wasn’t in the dream at all, and it was just Hannibal, aware of his mind's eye. 

He returns with a mirror, held up at Will’s eye level. He looks at Hannibal instead, who smiles. “It’s not much of a sight, as your bandages must be left on for an additional two weeks, but I believe this is a gradual way to grow accustomed to it.” Will resists looking at himself for a moment longer before submitting. He lacked the energy to play. 

The bandages were overdue a changing, dark red stains long settled. All intentional; it wouldn’t be fun if it wasn’t bloody. Despite himself, he’s shocked by it, and turns his head sharply to the side. He shouldn’t feel anything but the wound still throbs in horror. His brain probes around in search of what it lost, digging into his skull, the sensation akin to worms burrowing. Flashes of other people, other carcasses, other wounds flip through his mind, which simulates the sensation. 

It ceases when Hannibal cups a hand over the wound, acting as an eyepatch of sorts. “Over time, you’ll be able to adjust.” He guides Will’s face back to the mirror, hand remaining. Will can bear it now, steadily holds eye contact with himself. The pain doesn’t quite cease, but it’s bearable. He’s used to being hurt by things that aren’t actually there. 

“See?” Hannibal whispers. Hobbs doesn’t echo him anymore. It’s a different question, different sentiment out of Hannibal… yet the object he should be “seeing” is the same. There is no stag to veer him towards or away from the sight. But now Will sees. 

He couldn’t tell if it was his perspective that changed, or Hannibal himself. He seemed enraptured by Will, that ever so careful caution disregarded in the face of… what was it, passion? Yes really, an act of passion. A clear expression of love that said everything about the two of them, their nature, their twistedness. The greatest show of trust Hannibal has made yet. Will himself feels overwhelmed by it, full of it, nearly bursting. He is giving and Hannibal is taking, and yet it felt like the opposite. It doesn’t feel like enough. 

“I will say, I expected you to request some sort of reciprocation. An eye for an eye?” 

Perhaps a second eye gives one more than depth. Maybe it’s a ward against madness. A check against the other eye, to ensure no deception. It’s much easier to pull wool over a single eye, Will supposes. And yet Will feels like he’s the one manipulating Hannibal, by giving him something he knew he never had or ever again would experience. And Hannibal has a great taste for rarities and delicacies. 

Will had always been self sacrificial, quick to hurt himself in the name of faceless others, but this was no sacrifice. More like a testament, a covenant, for an unnamed, intangible thing. He’s never been in love before, but this seems to be how it’s been described. A great dedication and all consuming enrapturement. Such a thing can’t be expressed with words. Who knew, Will’s love language is gift giving. 

“I would say… this has equal costs and benefits for the both of us.”

Another right answer it seems. Hannibal finally lowers the mirror, but his hand remains, a makeshift bandage, a plug for a leak, veneer on a painting. 

“If I asked…” Hannibal touches the wound over and over again, entranced by his own work. The circling is almost hypnotic, despite not feeling it Will can somehow see the rings he draws over his skin. “Would you give me the other?”

“...I wouldn’t be able to navigate without you. I would have to ask you, and trust you, to lead me, constantly.” He's not thinking aloud, but entertaining Hannibal. “All that would exist for me would be what you define. There would be no stopping you from filling me only with you.”

The other’s eyes glimmer. He’s so bad at hiding what he wants, he’s practically drooling. “Does it not sound comfortable? I would ensure you a world of only comforts and protection. Like your glasses, I would be a buffer that makes life more palatable for you.”

If one eye bought him adoration, Will wondered what a second would get him. Perhaps Hannibal’s life itself, like the treat was poisoned. It seemed to be something he would find worth dying for. 

Will can’t feel his face but knows that he’s smirking, in that sardonic way he does whenever Hannibal manages to elicit a smile. “That sounds good to me.”

When Hannibal smiles back, it’s no peek of teeth, but rather full rows of them, like a predator baring its fangs before striking.

**Author's Note:**

> as much as i love hannibal i never planned on writing a fic cos i felt like everything’d been done before. but enough times passed where idc ahaha


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